


Morning Coffee

by Wordsy



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Chorus Arc, Gen, Humor, No Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 21:24:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9203738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsy/pseuds/Wordsy
Summary: Admittedly, Wash probably should have figured it out sooner, but the instant the bitter liquid passed his lips, everything clicked into place.Or, Wash turns the tables when Tucker and Grif get it in their heads to prank a Freelancer.





	

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [ this post](this%20post) and a conversation with lostlegendaerie on Tumblr

Like most of what the rebellion owned, the base cafeteria was makeshift and worn with use. Only a third of the army could squeeze in at once, and the space could seat only half that. Despite meals running long to give everyone a chance to get in and out, soldiers could always be found leaning against the walls or grouped in nearby hallways. Tables were a valued commodity.

During his first week on the base, Wash took to camping out with his food in some ignored length of hall. An irked Tucker tracked him down though, and dragged him back to ‘their table.’

‘Their table,’ as it was known, turned out to be two rickety tables pushed together that the rest of the army avoided, allowing the sim troopers to take the seats of honor.

After a few more meals of being hauled from his solitary seat in a deserted corner, Wash relented. Now he headed straight for the table where, no matter how cramped, someone scooted over for him to squeeze in.

The room was already packed and the line for food reaching out the door when Wash wandered into the cafeteria. An early morning training sessions with the cadets ran late, so he was considering just grabbing a ration bar to go. But he had been spotted. Across the room, Caboose was waving at him with a characteristic cheery grin. Fumbling for his helmet release, Wash headed over.

Caboose made room for Wash, offering a seat between him and Sarge. Wash slipped in and set his helmet aside. Across the table, Simmons and Grif were arguing. Rather, Simmons was arguing, counting off points on his fingers as he growled at his fellow soldier. Grif was shoveling pancakes into his mouth, communicating only through the occasional eye roll and middle finger thrown the maroon soldier’s direction.

Meanwhile, Tucker was inspecting a bit of scrambled egg on the end of his fork with a look of disgust, head propped up on a hand. He glanced over when Wash sat down. “Morning.”

Wash hummed and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting loose a heavy sigh.

Sarge looked up from the plans and diagrams he was reviewing. They appeared to be for some sort of giant, walking shotgun labelled ‘The Sarge-inator.’

The red leader grunted in acknowledgement. “Rough morning?” His face was half hidden behind a cup of coffee.

Wash rested his head up on a hand and stared, envious. “Target practice.”

“How’re they doing?” Simmons asked, finally giving up on his one sided debate with Grif.

The orange soldier stuffed another slice of pancake in his mouth. “Anyone die?” He mumbled around the mouthful, chewing excessively loud.

With a groan, Wash leaned forward to fold his arms on the table top. “No serious injuries.”

“Well,” Simmons offered with a weak shrug, “that’s good.”

“Four people went to the infirmary.” When no one answered, Wash looked up to find the sim troopers eyeing him. “I said no _serious_ injuries.”

He was greeted with doubtful looks. Wash scoffed and turned his attention to Caboose’s plate. The blue soldier was busy trying to feed his pet gun a sausage.

“What’s for breakfast?” Wash asked.

“Shitty pancakes and fucked up eggs.” Grif grumbled.

Simmons huffed. “If they’re so bad, why’ve you already had _two whole plates?”_

“Shame on you, Simmons, we can’t afford to waste food.”

The soldiers fell back into their usual bickering while Wash allowed his mind to drift, aided by the familiar background noise. Reality returned as a steaming cup slid into Wash’s vision. He sat up blinking owlishly.

Tucker was watching him, hand still on the offered mug. “Saved you coffee,” The teal soldier explained, giving his gift a final push.

Wash straightened, staring down at the cup with a blank expression.

Across the table, Grif snorted around another bite of food. “You’re supposed to drink it, asshole.”

The Freelancer was too distracted by the prospect of caffeine to give the orange soldier a proper glare. Wrapping both hands around the mug, Wash soaked in the warmth and breathed in the smell rising off the cup. He didn’t care that Grif, Simmons, and Tucker were staring at him intently across the table. Screw them, he needed coffee after a morning like this.

Admittedly, he probably should have figured it out sooner, but the instant the bitter liquid passed his lips, everything clicked into place.

It wasn’t regular black coffee bitter. It wasn’t even bad coffee bitter.

No, this was some asshole desecrating a perfectly good cup of coffee with a spoonful of _salt_ bitter.

Grif and Tucker’s eyes were glued to Wash’s face. Bastards. This had to be Grif’s idea of getting even for the laps Wash had ‘encouraged’ him to run by giving Caboose the man’s meal ticket and telling him Grif wanted to play tag. And Tucker, Wash wouldn’t be surprised if he thought the whole thing up, judging by the smug grin the teal soldier hid behind a hand. Assholes. Wrecking an already shitty cup of coffee.

Wash could feel the tense desire for a reaction hanging over the table. Neither Grif nor Tucker moved, doing their best to act natural while ogling the Freelancer. At least Simmons had the decency to wince in sympathy. He might not have been in on it but was clearly aware of the plot. Sarge pointedly ignored them all while Caboose was distracted by a flickering fluorescent light in the ceiling.

Now, what Wash was supposed to do was drop the cup, sputtering. His voice would rise in pitch as he snarled at the cackling troopers patting themselves on the back for a prank well played.

What Wash _should_ have done was set the cup down. Fix them with a pointed stare and tell them, ‘Very funny,’ before standing up and stalking away from the giggling captains – preferably to find an unspoiled cup of coffee.

Except, they brought coffee into it, so fuck them.

Face an uninterested mask, Wash took a deliberate swig of the abomination swirling in his cup. He made a show of setting the mug down before finally swallowing. God, that tasted like shit.

“Thanks,” Wash sighed, forcing a sigh of relief.

The sim troopers froze. Their eyes widened and the smiles were wiped clean off.

At the sight of their shell shocked expressions, Wash couldn’t resist taking another long sip from the horrifying salt and coffee soup. He didn’t dare wince, or react though. He deserved a whole pot of coffee after this performance, Christ.

Simmons was doing his best to hide behind his carton of milk, distancing himself from the perpetrators of the crime. His eyes rocketed between the Freelancer and Grif. The orange soldier’s jaw hung open in a mild look of disgust – like he was imagining the taste of his concoction. Tucker’s expression wasn’t much different, except his grimace suggested at least one of them was aware of how royally their plan had backfired and was beginning to consider the consequences.

Wash almost dropped the whole thing there, but there was no way he was wasting this opportunity. He struggled to keep the grin off his face and feigned a bored look at Grif’s tray.

“Are you going to eat that?” He pointed at the orange soldier’s half-finished meal.

Grif looked down at the plate like he’d never seen it before. “I…uh–”

“Cool, thanks.” In a swift movement, Wash pulled the plate towards him and popped a bit of sausage in his mouth. It was cold now, but it helped get rid of the salt coating his tongue. Ugh. He suppressed a shudder.

But the pair was still sitting there looking completely and utterly baffled, and it was way too much fun to stop now.

Tucker and Grif’s eyes tracked the mug as the Freelancer picked it up once more and took a gulp. A smaller one, because holy shit they’d added a lot of salt.

This time, Wash made a face and glanced down at the contents curiously. He looked back up at a tense Grif and Tucker.

Wash swirled the drink around the cup. “Did you put sugar in this?”

Simmons let out a wheezing sound that he quickly covered with a cough. There might have been the hint of a smile behind his fist. Meanwhile, Grif and Tucker pulled faces traditionally associated with shitting bricks.

Before either could answer, Wash gave a halfhearted shrug and set the cup aside. “There’s another training session in twenty. I should go.”

Standing, the Freelancer tucked his helmet under one arm. After a second thought, he also picked up Grif’s plate. He looked over at the sim troopers.

“Thanks for breakfast.” And without another glance back, he strode away, smile finally breaking out once his back was turned.

Just before walking out, Tucker’s voice drifted through the dull buzz of cafeteria life.

“What. The ever living _fuck_.”

Wash grinned, shoving the helmet on his head to muffle his snickering.

A cup of coffee had never been so satisfying.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr at [ wordsysayswords](http://wordsysayswords.tumblr.com/)


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